


Both Sides Of The Conversation

by OnYourMark



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Multi, Pre-Canon, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-08
Updated: 2011-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-14 13:56:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnYourMark/pseuds/OnYourMark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While investigating a gallery theft, rookie FBI agent Peter Burke meets assistant manager Elizabeth Beale and her appraiser, Neal Caffrey. They're about to be the strangest thing that ever happened to him, but he can't say he minds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Both Sides Of The Conversation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kinkmeme, [prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/collarkink/1404.html?thread=2411388#t2411388): Remember the gallery break-in/theft, when Peter met Elisabeth. In this alternate reality Neal Caffrey works there too.
> 
> Prettied up and posted here.

When Peter arrived at the gallery, they already had a guy in handcuffs. He glanced from the smug-asshole NYPD officer to the guy to the rest of the gallery staff who had been allowed to just stand there and gawk, and he rolled his eyes.

"Just what in the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked the cop, and the smile dropped flat off the guy's face.

"Caught your suspect," the cop said.

"You got any grounds?" Peter asked. "Because I'm pretty sure nobody calls in the FBI if there's so much evidence lying around some beat cop can make an arrest. Jesus Christ, stop screwing up my crime scene!" he added, and the two agents who'd been assigned to help him with the case began sweeping everyone out of the gallery, into the street, nodding at Peter as they passed. The guy in cuffs, who was leaning with studied indolence against the low edge of the receptionist's desk, stayed where he was.

"Well?" Peter continued to the cop. "Why's this man in cuffs?"

"Got a record," the cop said. Peter stared at him.

"Are you serious? Half the artists in Manhattan have a record. What for?"

"Burglary," the man offered, and Peter glanced over at him. He gave Peter a bright smile full of even teeth. "I did time served plus probation. Misdemeanor."

"Fuck's sake," Peter groaned. "You, buddy, get lost, and forget you were ever here," he told the cop, unlocking the man's wrists and tossing the cuffs to the cop. "Seriously, get out of my sight."

As the cop scurried away the man rubbed his wrists, head bent, but there was a grin on his face that was a little more honest now. He had an unruly shock of thick black hair, and when he looked up from his wrists his eyes were just this perfect vivid blue.

"He rough you up at all?" Peter asked, feeling oddly and immediately protective of the guy. Nobody likes to start out their day in handcuffs.

"Just the cuffs. I went quietly," the man said, flashing his teeth again. "I -- "

" _What in the hell is going on here?_ " someone yelled, and the man glanced over his shoulder.

"Shit, it's Elizabeth," he said, eyes going wide as a young woman burst furiously past the cops on the door and strode into the gallery.

"Are you the one who arrested my appraiser?" she demanded of Peter, walking right up to him and poking him in the chest. "Because my sister's a lawyer, pal, and -- "

"Oh Elizabeth, no, hey -- " the man grabbed her by the arm, preventing her from poking Peter again. Peter stared at her, fascinated by her guts. "No, he got me out of the cuffs. See? No cuffs," he said, holding up his hands. Elizabeth narrowed her eyes.

"Special Agent Peter Burke, ma'am, I'll be the investigating agent on this case," Peter said, offering his badge. She took it and examined it minutely. The man whispered in her ear for a minute, tugging her away, and when they returned she handed him his wallet with a smile that looked slightly forced.

"I'm Elizabeth Beale, assistant manager for the gallery," she said, and gestured to the man still half-hiding behind her. "This is Neal Caffrey, my appraiser. I um. Guess I owe you an apology. For poking you."

"It's fine," Peter said.

"And I think I owe you some thanks. Agent Burke's my knight in shining armor," Neal said, directing the latter to Elizabeth. Peter looked at the two of them, Neal's short wild hair and Elizabeth's blue eyes, and decided he was well and truly screwed.

\---

They didn't have the luxury of hauling four dock workers, one salesman, three artists (who just happened to be there to supervise new arrivals), the receptionist, Neal, and Elizabeth all down to the Federal Building to question them about the theft the night before. Peter set up shop in Elizabeth's little office and spoke to the artists, Neal, and Elizabeth individually, while his agents interviewed the rest. Elizabeth was first up; she sat down across her own desk from him and smiled.

"These are just routine questions," Peter said carefully. "Establishing where everyone was, that kind of thing."

"Are you building a timeline?" she asked, eyes sparkling. "Will there be charts? Graphs?"

"Pie and bar," he informed her. "Actually, if you have a map of the gallery, that would help."

She rummaged in some loose paper on one side of the desk and produced one, giving him a smile.

"You don't seem too upset the gallery's been robbed," Peter said.

"Well, it's not my gallery. Besides, we're insured. It's a little violating, but I've had my apartment robbed before, so I have some experience," she said.

"Your apartment was robbed?" he asked. She tipped her head at the door.

"Neal," she said.

"Ah. His misdemeanor burglary."

"He seemed like a cute kid looking for a way up. I thought I'd give him one," she told him. "Besides, he might have been breaking in but I owe him for bashing his head in with a cricket bat."

Peter knew he was allowing himself to get distracted, but he couldn't resist asking. "A cricket bat?"

"They're broader," she said.

"Oh, well, of course." Peter shuffled the map into his file. "Art appraiser's not a job you generally give a crook you met while he was robbing you."

"Well, we started him on the dock, but he -- " she shrugged. "He has a sixth sense about paintings. He sees the trends coming three months before anyone else. He knows exactly what people want to buy. We're not going to be able to keep him here once the big galleries catch on."

"Which brings us back to why we're here," he said. "Art. Can I ask where you were last night?"

She gave him an impish look. "No alibi, I'm afraid. I closed the gallery at nine, got some dinner, went home, watched the news, and went to bed. Boring, I know."

"We think the theft might have happened as early as ten. What time did you -- where did you eat?" he asked.

"Oh, the new Italian place, Donatella's? Have you been?" she asked. Peter shook his head. "You should try it, their cream sauce is amazing."

"I'll do that," he said with a smile. "Did you -- "

"I could give you advice on what to order," she interrupted.

Peter was reasonably sure this was an offer of a date, which was frankly astounding because he didn't get asked on dates. Ever. His buddies said it was because he had a thousand yard stare that tended to put people off, plus the whole FBI thing, but Peter privately suspected most people just knew there was someone better-looking around.

And it wasn't like he could say yes. Technically she was a suspect.

"Let's get back to the timeline," he said with a gentle smile. She nodded. "So what time did you leave Donatella's?"

\---

Neal was his second interview, and he was a little more focused.

"I know how to catch who did this," he said bluntly, sitting down. Peter raised his eyebrows. "Set a thief to catch a thief, right?"

"Very dramatic," Peter said. "Let's talk about you first."

"Let's," Neal said, leaning back. "Should I run down the interview for you? Neal Caffrey, twenty-one, high school dropout, GED, sealed juvenile record, Misdemeanor Burglary with time served, yes it was Elizabeth, which I'm sure she told you, and..." he flicked a business card across the table. "My parole officer's number is the first one on the back. My home phone is the second."

Peter rested his chin on one hand. "All I care about is where you were between nine last night and nine this morning."

Neal nodded. "I left the gallery at seven. Met has late hours and life-drawing for members on Thursdays, so I was there until nine-thirty -- you can ask Lali at Security, they closed at nine and I hung out talking with some of the guards for a while. I met a pal for drinks at the bar down the street; he's not going to talk to you but my credit card should show some charges between ten-fifteen and, oh, probably midnight? Home to bed, didn't see anyone, didn't take anyone with me. Got up at six, went running, I have some regulars I always see who can confirm, cooked breakfast alone, got here at eight, handcuffs, saved by Peter Burke, you know the rest." Neal shrugged. "It's patchy, as an alibi. I could have done it. But I didn't."

"Mr. Ca -- "

"Neal," Neal said pleasantly.

"Neal, could you not have both sides of the conversation for me?" Peter asked. Neal blinked at him. "It's fascinating to watch but you're not very good at being me."

There was a genuine moment of astonishment there before Neal grinned at him. "You're the first person who's ever called me on that."

"We're the FBI," Peter informed him. "Okay, let's -- "

"You don't want to write all that down?" Neal asked. Peter held up his notebook, where he had actually been taking notes. "Wow. Shorthand. I bet you were the belle of the secretarial college graduation ball."

"I also type a hundred words a minute," Peter said drily, but the appraising look Neal was giving him was not helping his sensation of being screwed. "Okay, so you think you know who did this?"

"Fingerpointing from the prime suspect, for what it's worth," Neal shrugged. "I don't know who but I can find out. Give me an hour in a room with all the staff. Are you sure it was an inside job? If it was, that means you must have found out someone disabled the -- "

"Seriously, stop interrogating yourself," Peter said. Neal closed his mouth and Peter rubbed his temples. "Yes. The security was disabled from the inside, using the general staff authorization code. Either the thief had some very interesting technology, or had an accomplice inside, or was their own accomplice inside."

"Or works for the security company," Neal pointed out. Peter stared at him. "Don't tell me the thought hasn't crossed your mind."

"The surprise is that it crossed yours," Peter said.

"That's how I would have done it."

"You think a lot about robbing the gallery?"

"I certainly did during the hour I spent in cuffs before you showed up," Neal replied with a blinding grin. "I was expecting...well. Different treatment from what I got. I thought it would be good to have a few aces up my sleeve. Nice I didn't need them."

"Do you have any actual suspects?" Peter asked.

"Let me loose and find out," Neal replied.

\---

It took Neal Caffrey forty minutes of milling around with the rest of the staff, while they waited to be interviewed or released or go back to work, before reached up and scratched his ear, the high sign to Peter that he was ready to talk. It took less than twenty minutes after that for Peter to break one of the artists, who had convinced the lone sales agent to let her in for a quickie and taped the door behind her so that the thieves could get in (the sales agent wasn't talking). Insurance fraud got involved. Peter enjoyed himself thoroughly.

And, out of the corner of his eye, watched Elizabeth Beale and Neal Caffrey. Sometimes they were on opposite sides of the room, which made it difficult, but he was a trained federal agent, after all.

Hughes said he'd never seen someone solve a case in three hours before. Peter said he had an informer. Hughes laughed and asked if it was a psychic.

And then there was the delicate process of leaving the crime scene, getting all the details down, mopping up the mess they'd made, making sure everything was properly filed. As the last of the evidence techs left, Peter walked up to Neal, rubbing the back of his head.

"So...I appreciated this," he said awkwardly, because now Neal Caffrey wasn't suspect or witness. He was just a guy. A really good looking guy who kept staring at Peter. "You've got a good eye. Would, uh."

Neal looked at him, a little smile twitching the edge of his lips.

"I have your number, can I call you?" Peter asked. "The FBI employs consultants sometimes."

"Call me about consulting," Neal repeated.

"Yeah. Just on the off chance. Elizabeth said you're good with art, we deal with that in my division," Peter said, aware he sounded like a complete moron. "There's a fee. I mean, we pay for consulting work."

"I'm pretty sure I won't pass the background checks," Neal said. "But sure, you want to try smuggling me past security sometime, you know where to find me."

"Thanks. Uh." Peter said, because this conversation had veered wildly from his secret, admittedly totally hopeless plans of asking Neal if he wanted to go out sometime. "Thank you. And tell Elizabeth thank you too."

He fled before he could have a similarly painful encounter with Elizabeth. On his way out the door, he stopped one of the other agents. "Look, I'm not comfortable just putting away our inside guys. Let's keep surveillance on this place till we get the actual thieves, make sure there's no repeat offense or reprisals, okay? Particularly Caffrey. They might figure out he's the one who turned them in."

Neal was probably straight. Elizabeth was cute, but a woman like that without a boyfriend? He'd probably just misread the signals about the Italian place. Surveillance would help him find out, and once he saw Neal kissing some random girl or Elizabeth going out for dinner with her boyfriend (girlfriend, maybe? Partner, anyway -- god, dating was confusing) he could put the whole thing out of his mind.

Three days later, a surveillance photo landed on his desk.

"Agent Burke, I think he's trying to tell you something," one of the other agents said, and gave him an odd, go-get-'em grin. Peter looked down at the photo, which showed Neal Caffrey on his day off, leaning against the railing outside the gallery, eating an ice-cream cone. Up above, Elizabeth stood at the big gallery windows, looking down at him with a grin. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt that read I LIKE BOYS.

Peter called off surveillance later that day. He didn't really have a good excuse anymore; they'd caught the bad guys and there was no reason to keep wasting man-hours on people who didn't need to be surveilled. He went down to the gallery himself that afternoon, to explain that surveillance was being pulled, and found Neal back at work, in a three-piece suit, going over paintings on the gallery dock. Neal's face lit up with a grin.

"Special Agent Burke," Neal said, strolling over. "I see you're stopping crime in person today. They get any good film yesterday?"

"Yeah. Nice shirt," Peter told him.

"It's Elizabeth's," Neal replied. "I borrowed it for the occasion."

They stood there awkwardly for a minute. Neal put his hands on his hips.

"Listen, if you can't cowboy up enough to actually ask me out, are you going to be super offended or emasculated or something if I ask you out?" Neal said.

"Oh, thank God," Peter replied. "Dinner?"

"Are you off the clock?"

"I can be," Peter said.

"Great. Give me twenty minutes. Donatella's?"

"Okay."

"Okay then," Neal said, and went back to his paintings. Peter, feeling like he'd just been clubbed with something, wandered through the dock and into the back of the gallery. Elizabeth was standing in the hallway, talking to someone. She bid the other woman goodbye as he approached.

"Agent Burke!" she said, looking pleased and surprised. "Hi! Didn't know if we'd see you again."

"Well, we were pulling surveillance, I thought I should come down and tell you," Peter said. "Say thanks for putting up with it, that stuff."

"We felt very safe," she said, patting his arm. "I'm in the middle of hiring a new sales associate, hopefully one that _won't_ try to rob us blind this time. You know anyone with retail experience and an ironclad morality?"

"I find the two don't always go together," he said. "But then my sample pool's kinda skewed."

"I guess so," she said. "Were you looking for Neal?"

"I, ah, just saw him actually. We're getting dinner at that place you recommended."

"Donatella's? Great! I'll come along," Elizabeth said, and Peter kept his mouth shut, because he really didn't know how to respond to most of what was going on around him. She was wearing something that was more low-cut than he was entirely comfortable looking at, but he couldn't deny the view was spectacular.

"Elizabeth!" Neal yelled from the dock. "Is Peter in there?"

"Yep, just let me get my coat, I'm coming with you boys," she yelled back.

"Great!" Neal's voice drifted out, as she disappeared into her office to get her coat.

Peter stood there, in the now-empty hallway, utterly perplexed.

\---

Donatella's was nearby, and Elizabeth and Neal were obviously already regulars; the host asked them to wait for a few minutes, even though there were empty tables, but then when he came back to the front he led them through the empty tables to a corner booth. Neal, who had been keeping up a steady stream of small-talk, somehow maneuvered Peter into sitting in the middle, in the curve of the booth, with Elizabeth on one side and Neal on the other. Elizabeth ordered for all three of them. Neal put his hand on Peter's thigh under the table, leaning in when he talked.

"I think Elizabeth has tried everything on the menu at least once," he said, looking amused.

"I love good Italian," Elizabeth replied. "All the Italian around here is gross. It's like a burger joint that happens to serve spaghetti."

"I'm more of a Chinese guy, myself," Peter said.

"Really cheap, greasy fake Chinese?" Elizabeth asked.

"Um." Peter decided he had probably already blown his cover as someone with an ounce of culture or class. "Well, yeah."

"Me too! Have you tried Friendly Dragon on -- "

"Oh, yeah," Peter said. "The place that tempura-fries the shrimp in the fried rice?"

"I've never had their shrimp fried rice," Elizabeth said, eyes going round.

"She's a General Tso's girl," Neal said. "I just get whatever has mushrooms in it."

Peter was, after all, an FBI agent. He could read body language pretty well, and he was very good at clues.

"So," he said, with more calm than he felt, "How long have you two been dating?"

"Oh, my God," Neal groaned, leaning back. Elizabeth giggled. "Come on, you couldn't have played dumb, Peter?"

"He has to pay for dinner, now," Elizabeth confided. Peter cocked his head at her. "I bet you'd figure it out before the food came."

"Ah," Peter said, and the pleasant, warm feeling of a few seconds ago faded sharply. "So. This was a game?"

"Wha -- no!" Neal said urgently, as Peter started to rise. He couldn't get very far, between the table and being in the middle. "No, it's not like that!"

"Then explain to me exactly what it's like," Peter replied sharply. Elizabeth moved her hand to his arm, tugging on it.

"We didn't take you out to settle a bet," she said, as Peter turned to her. He was aware he was glaring, and usually that freaked people out, but she didn't even seem to notice. "We just made the bet to see who'd treat for dinner."

"Okay..." Peter looked back and forth between them, and was rescued by the arrival of the food.

"Two minutes! You couldn't have waited two minutes?" Neal said to Peter.

"Well, I didn't know there was money riding on my detective skills," Peter said. "Also, speaking of those, I'm getting some mixed signals here. You did ask me out, right?"

Neal, mouth full of chicken carbonara, nodded.

"Did you know about that?" Peter continued, turning to Elizabeth. She took a dainty bite of her alfredo before replying.

"I suggested it," she said. "I _told_ him you wouldn't do it without a nudge."

" _I Like Boys_?" Peter asked. "That's more of a shove."

"It worked," Neal pointed out.

"So, am I...I don't understand this," Peter said, a little plaintively. "Is this something you two...do?"

"Ask someone out together? No," Elizabeth said. "It's the first time we've tried it."

"Is that what we're doing?"

"It is if you want it to be," Neal replied. "No pressure."

"Which reminds me, this is going to be pretty awkward if you're gay," Elizabeth added.

"Look, I'm not...anything, I mean, I just...I don't date a _lot_ , but when I do I don't care about that stuff. Uh, but I've never..." he glanced back and forth between them again. "You know, usually it's a little more one-on-one."

"We're a set," Neal said.

"Wait, okay, so you met when you broke into her apartment and you hit him in the head with a cricket bat," Peter said. They nodded. "You thought that would be a good basis for a relationship?"

"There were other factors involved," Neal said stiffly.

"And now you want to date me. Both of you." More nods. "This is the strangest thing that's ever happened to me."

"Too strange?" Elizabeth asked softly. Peter hesitated for a minute.

"No," he said.

\---

They talked about -- oh, everything over dinner, his work and Elizabeth's problems with the gallery (assistant manager, his ass; she was clearly running the place for some absentee owner who wasn't giving her half the budget she needed) and the art Neal was working on in his off-hours. It was weird, definitely; Neal could hold a conversation without anyone else even being involved, so it was like being on a date with Elizabeth, Neal, and Neal's Inner Voice. Not bad, just...overwhelming, a little. He couldn't shake the idea that they'd asked him out by mistake.

"Hey, are you busy tonight?" Neal asked, as they were digesting their meal over a last glass of wine. Peter shook his head, but Elizabeth groaned.

"Neal, we spend all day in the gallery," she said.

"I like art," Neal replied. He was sprawled a little, his leg up against Peter's from knee to ankle, his smile slow and lazy. "You like art, Peter?"

"Some art," Peter allowed cautiously.

"Oh, he's a picky one," Elizabeth said. She was leaning against him, complacent.

"Bet I can tell what kind of art you like." Neal sat up a little and looked into Peter's face. Peter stared back, because he wasn't sure what else to do. "Hm. Nothing too out there. Nothing too early either, too religious, am I right? Renaissance portraiture. Dutch old masters. Realism in general, mid-twentieth-century realism in particular. But you also like Picasso and you don't know why."

Peter gaped. "How did you...?"

"And that's why he's our appraiser," Elizabeth said gleefully. "Fine, Neal, go on, do your thing. He did this to me on our first date," she said, as Neal shifted away from the table, heading for the pay-phones in the rear of the restaurant. Peter saw him stop and subtly hand a credit-card to their waiter as he went.

"What is he doing?" Peter asked, slightly alarmed.

"Don't worry. Dating a couple is as freaky as it gets for now," she said, patting his shoulder. "I promise we'll flip for who gets to kiss you good night if people are watching. Neal said you G-men probably have a reputation to uphold."

"You don't have any kind of bet where the winner sleeps with me first, right?" Peter asked.

"That's some impressive planning ahead."

"I didn't mean to assume -- "

"Relax," she grinned. "No bets, just plans. Eventually. Are you really okay with this?"

Peter sipped his wine. "I'm getting there."

Neal came back, beaming. "Okay. Who wants a private tour of the Museum of Arts and Design? Trust me, Peter, you'll love it."

The museum was closed, but Neal just walked up to the door and knocked on the glass; a night-security guard appeared, holding a pair of flashlights. He handed one of them to Neal. Neal passed him a fifty.

"Come on," he said, leading the way into the darkened museum.

Peter decided that while he obviously shouldn't be trespassing after hours in a museum, he also probably shouldn't be considering dating two people at once, so he might as well enjoy himself. Neal knew a lot about the museum, and it seemed like Elizabeth knew everything he didn't. He found himself standing in front of a series of miniature buildings on display, at eleven at night, kissing Elizabeth while Neal leaned comfortably against him from behind, chin resting on his shoulder. When Peter broke off the kiss, Neal pulled his jaw around gently and kissed him too.

"How's it going with the strange?" Elizabeth asked.

"Think I'm over it," Peter said, and kissed her again.

\---

The three of them left the museum around midnight and Elizabeth, with some kind of unerring radar, found them a cab; their place was closer, so they went there first and left him to ride home alone, Elizabeth with an apologetic kiss and Neal with a subtle brush of fingers up his thigh, a promise of more to come that made Peter's breath hitch. The cabbie looked at him in the rearview mirror with the most knowing expression ever.

He got all the way home, up the stairs, and into his apartment before he sat down abruptly and said, "What the hell am I doing?"

The wine had worn off, as had the adrenaline rush of kissing two people at once in a darkened room full of priceless art, and all that was left now was The Strange, as Elizabeth had called it. He wondered if he dared try an internet search on the word "threesome" and then decided he probably didn't. This kind of thing only happened in French literature and cheap porn, right?

Peter was pretty sure he was in the French literature version. Which was just as well. Cheap porn had never really been his style. On the other hand, didn't people die all the time in French literature?

He had to stop thinking about this and go to bed.

The next morning, a weary-looking Peter arrived at the FBI to a round of applause, which he didn't understand until he saw the vase of roses sitting on his desk.

"Baby Burke finally found someone," Ruiz said, leering at him.

"Fuck off, Ruiz," Burke groaned, dropping into his chair.

"Let's see -- Peter, had a great time last night, are you free tomorrow?" Ruiz announced, plucking the card out of the bouquet. Peter didn't even bother grabbing for it back; Ruiz was a bully and only picking on him because Peter's clearance rate was higher and they both knew it.

"Seriously, go screw yourself," Peter told him, and carefully set the vase aside, where it wouldn't be quite so visible but would still be on his desk, something he could look at when he started to freak out. One of the file clerks made a kissing noise as she passed. Peter rubbed his eyes with one hand. Ruiz, who bored easily, tossed the card on his desk and wandered off to gossip about him with the other agents. Peter checked that his name wasn't up for any new cases on the board, glanced at Hughes (busy with a meeting), and then picked up his phone.

"Neal Caffrey," Neal answered, sounding faintly harassed.

"I got the flowers," Peter replied. There was a quiet laugh down the line; that was more like it. "Thanks for embarrassing me in front of the entire FBI, by the way."

"Aw, come on, not the _entire_ FBI," Neal replied. "Did you read the card?"

"I did," Peter said, and then in his suavest voice tried, "And I'm free tomorrow."

"Did you just try to smooth-talk me?" Neal asked, voice filling with glee. Peter rubbed his eyes again. "That's adorable. Do it again."

"No."

"Aw, come on, I have Elizabeth on speakerphone now, just one more time."

"No!"

"Whatever it is you did, I'm sure it was very amusing," Elizabeth's voice came down the line. "How'd you like the flowers?"

"Aside from the fact the entire department thinks I got lucky last night?"

"Well, is that such a bad thing?" Elizabeth asked. She was so reasonable about the whole thing that it was hard to argue with her. "I'm throwing a party tomorrow. I thought we could celebrate the one week anniversary of the gallery getting robbed. We want you to be our date."

"Elizabeth!" Neal sounded annoyed. "I wanted to ask him."

"I'm not really a party guy," Peter said, covering his mouth and the receiver together as people walked past. "You know, things that happen at parties, I'm an FBI agent..."

Neal snickered. "Nobody's going to be smoking pot at the party, Peter, relax."

"Be nice," Elizabeth said. Peter felt distinctly double-teamed. "Come on, Peter, you have to come. Nine o'clock at my place. You'll enjoy yourself."

"I reserve the right to hide in the kitchen," Peter said.

"Done deal. Can't wait," she said.

"Oh, and Peter?" Neal said, just as Peter was about to hang up. "That card has a secret on it."

"Goodbye, Neal," Peter said firmly, and hung up on Neal's laughter.

Peter picked up the card from his desk and studied it. No watermark, no florist's stamp, and the little logo at the top was hand-drawn. Neal had gone to a lot of trouble to make this look like an ordinary card.

He tucked it in his pocket, smiled a little in spite of himself, and went off to catch some bad guys.

\---

Peter had been a boy scout -- actually, he'd been an eagle scout, and learned he was probably in violation of boy scout sexuality policy when he met his first boyfriend on a survivalist trip when he was sixteen -- and he knew all about secret messages. That evening, he discarded the idea of a code in the card after folding it several different ways, and after some thought he got up and found a candle. Sure enough, a few seconds over the flame revealed a message in invisible ink on the reverse of the card.

 _1\. Wear a suit.  
2\. Don't bring wine.  
3\. You're an excellent kisser._

Peter stared at the message for a while, a warm blossom of pleasure in his chest, and went to pick out a good suit to wear.

Unfortunately, they caught a case in the early afternoon and some unscheduled surveillance that evening; by the time Peter's relief arrived, it was too late to run home and change. Peter pulled up to their building half an hour late, checked his reflection quickly in the rearview mirror, and completely forgot to take off his holster until he was already knocking on their door.

At least, he thought, he was wearing _a_ suit, if not _the_ suit he'd intended. When the door opened, a stranger was standing there, taking him in.

"Uh," Peter said. "I might have the wrong apartment."

"Is that Peter?" someone called from inside, and Neal appeared behind the stranger, beaming. "You came! I was about to recoup my losses betting you'd show up. Told you he wasn't a coward," he said to the woman in the doorway, who rolled her eyes. "Peter, this is Anne, she's Elizabeth's friend. Come in, jeez, what took you so long? We told you nine on purpose so you'd be fashionably late. Apparently you're very fashionable."

"I got stuck at work," Peter said apologetically, as Neal put a hand on the small of his back and guided him into a very tastefully decorated living room.

"Everyone, this is Peter, Peter this is everyone," Neal said, waving at an assortment of people on sofas and chairs, most with a drink in their hand. The women were in cocktail dresses for the most part, the men in suits -- he almost felt a little underdressed. "You can make friends later," Neal said, and then leaned in close, hissing, "Is that a holster under your coat or are you just happy to see me?"

"Both," Peter hissed back.

"Come on, I'll get you a drink," Neal said pleasantly, and guided him further through the apartment, into the kitchen, which was empty except for Elizabeth. "Oh my god you wore a _gun_ to a party?" he asked, as soon as the door shut.

"Hi," Elizabeth said, a little more hospitably, and kissed him. She tasted like wine.

"I got held up at work," Peter repeated. "Sorry, I came straight here, I forgot to take it off."

Neal slipped a hand under his jacket, which was a little unnerving, until Peter realized he was unbuckling the strap holding his spare clips in place. He pushed Peter gently back against the wall and ran his other hand up Peter's chest, kissing him while he unbuckled the gun, too. The holster slipped down Peter's back, and Neal caught it deftly, pulling it away from his body.

"That's not at all worrying," Peter said, as Neal carried the holster, gun and all, over to the kitchen counter. He opened a cheery retro-looking bread box, took out the bread sitting inside, and put the gun into it instead, closing it cautiously.

"That's more like it," Elizabeth said approvingly, and kissed Peter again, handing him a glass of wine. "You are forgiven for being late. I hope it was important."

"Half a million dollars in securities fraud," Peter offered.

"No gang hits?" Neal asked.

"I don't -- " Peter started, and realized Neal was joking. "No. The gun's mostly decorative."

"Well, it looks very decorative on you, but not at a party," Elizabeth continued. Peter sipped his wine hastily. "Come on, I'll introduce you around."

The party wasn't what he expected. His own experience of parties was mostly limited to the kinds he had to attend in college, because when you're first-string varsity football for a big ten team you have certain obligations to fulfill. This was subdued, relaxed, just people talking and having wine. Neal and Elizabeth seemed to trade off -- at least one of them was always next to him or leaning over him or asking him something, pulling him into the conversation.

They were all _young_ , he thought, though most of them were probably within a few years of his age, and he was young himself. But they were just...people with different lives. Neal was the baby, twenty-one and barely looking it, but he and Elizabeth seemed older, somehow. Like they understood the kind of responsibility he had, because they did too. Peter found himself wondering what happened to a kid to make him grow up as fast as Neal. Elizabeth just seemed like she'd probably been born that way.

"She's taken, you know," someone said to him, a guy on his left who'd had a lot more wine than the glass and a half Peter had been nursing all night. Peter glanced at him. "Elizabeth? She's Neal's girlfriend," he added, and Peter realized he must have been staring. "Don't get ideas."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Peter said.

He had to beg off early; he had work in the morning, and it would probably be a long day. Neal brought him his holster and offered to walk him down to his car, and they stood in front of the building for a little while, taking in the crisp night air.

"So? You had a good time?" Neal asked, looking oddly hopeful, less self-assured than he had at the party.

"Yeah, this was nice," Peter agreed. Neal stepped in to kiss him, pressing them into the shadow of the building's overhang. Peter put his hands on Neal's hips and held him there, until Neal gave him one final peck on the lips and squirmed away, seemingly embarrassed -- whether because Peter could feel what it was doing to him, or he could feel what it was doing to Peter, he wasn't sure. Peter ducked his head a little, caught a faint blush on Neal's cheeks.

"You've never done this with a guy before," he said, startled by the revelation.

"Nah, not really," Neal said, playing it casual. "Flirted and stuff."

"If it makes you uncomfortable -- "

"No!" Neal said quickly. "I'm just not used to it. Anyway, Elizabeth would kill me if I tried anything without her."

Peter smiled. "Fair enough."

"Can we see you this weekend? Will you have to work?"

"Probably not. I'll know tomorrow. Want me to call you?"

Neal nodded. "Very much."

"You can come to my place on Saturday. I'll make dinner," Peter offered.

"You cook?" Neal asked. "Nobody I know cooks. I'm the most enlightened guy I know, and _I_ don't cook."

"Well, I can make pot roast," Peter said, and then, very daringly added, "and waffles."

Neal glanced at him, pleasure spreading slowly across his face. "Waffles, huh?"

"Maybe you want pancakes?"

"Waffles will be fine." Neal kissed him again. "You should go home. Rest up for your big date on Saturday," he added, and tapped Peter's nose with a finger. "Elizabeth and I have high standards. And, clearly, extremely good taste."

He was inside before Peter could reply.

\---

Friday night, Peter came home, took off his jacket, locked up his gun, and realized his apartment was a mess.

It was a long job, being an FBI agent, especially a rookie who caught all the paperwork and all the cases nobody else wanted. When he got home he tended to dump his files on the cleanest available surface and eat off a plate on his lap on his couch while he went over them. Everything was dusty. His kitchen looked like he didn't know how to wash a dish. There was something growing in one corner of his bathroom sink. He wasn't sure where his broom was. Or if he even owned one anymore.

Neal and Elizabeth had said they'd be there at six on Saturday. If he cleaned tonight, he could buy groceries in the morning, and maybe put on at least the appearance of being someone who knew what they were doing. That would be ideal.

He changed the sheets on the bed, too, with an amount of optimism that was unusual, for him. And made a note to buy a beef roast, potatoes, onions, and a box of condoms. Because that wouldn't look weird to the checkout cashier at all.

By six o'clock on Saturday, the pot roast was almost done slow-cooking on the stove and Peter had successfully conquered whatever burgeoning civilization had been growing in the sink. His files were neatly stacked in a box on his desk, and his dining table -- which was actually in the living room, the perils of a tiny apartment -- was visible on top for the first time in months.

Wine. He had no wine. He'd used the last of it on the pot roast.

He checked his watch -- Neal and Elizabeth might, conceivably, be fashionably late, and there was a liquor store down the block. He pulled on his coat, opened the door --

Neal and Elizabeth were standing there, Neal with his hand raised to knock. They looked at him, startled.

"I forgot wine," he blurted, and then immediately winced. "Sorry. Hi."

"It's okay," Elizabeth said, and held up a bottle of wine. "We didn't."

Neal held up another. "Also, we're kind of easy, and already impressed with you."

Peter stared at them. "Oh. Good. Uh, come in. Sorry about the..." he closed the door after them, turned around, and took in his apartment with someone else's eyes: nothing on the walls, respectable but second-hand furniture, everything crammed into close quarters. "...apartment," he finished lamely.

"I like it," Neal said. "You have good raw tastes. That chair's an antique," he added, pointing at a chair Peter had rescued from a thrift store for ten bucks.

"Well, I try," Peter said modestly, making a mental note to have one of the Bureau's appraisers take a look at it.

"It smells amazing in here," Elizabeth added.

"Where's your corkscrew?" Neal called, already in the kitchen. Peter heard drawers banging open. "Nevermind!"

Elizabeth was making herself at home as well, studying the books on his shelves. "The Navier Stokes Equations Explained," she read aloud. "Are you secretly building a bomb?"

"No, it's physics," Peter said. "Kind of."

"Kind of?" Elizabeth asked, looking over her shoulder.

"It's about the nonlinear differential equations that apply to movement of fluid in space," Peter added. "The title's a joke."

"It is."

"Because you can't actually explain them without turbulence, which we don't understand, so they can't be explained fully...sorry, it's, I studied math in college," Peter said, wondering if he could subtly steer her towards something easier to explain away, like the thrillers on the next shelf down. "It's just an old textbook."

There was a crash from the kitchen.

"I got it!" Neal yelled. "No worries!"

"Should I make sure he's not destroying anything?" Peter asked, worried.

"Neal almost never destroys things," Elizabeth assured him, as Neal emerged with three glasses of wine.

From there it stopped being awkward, possibly because there were two bottles of wine involved and only three people, possibly because Neal ate the pot roast like he'd never seen food before and Elizabeth made approving noises with every other bite. By the end of the meal, Peter felt warm and satisfied and much more confident, and Neal kept making them laugh with some long, involved monologue about an eccentric artist he was trying to woo into the gallery's clutches.

So when Elizabeth suggested they move from the table to the sofa, it seemed natural to catch her hand as she stood and kiss her, as natural as it did to turn when he felt Neal's body behind his and plant a slightly-more-cautious kiss on Neal's jaw, just below his ear. He'd shaved before they came over; he still smelled like aftershave and his skin was smooth. Peter nuzzled it, hand still held in Elizabeth's, until she laughed and tugged him over to the sofa, their original goal.

None of them were even close to sober, which probably made it easier. Or, well, it made it easier to accept; it was a little challenging to multitask, but Neal seemed intent on kissing him for the rest of time and Elizabeth was working on the buttons of his shirt, so really they were doing most of the work.

"I could make out with you for hours," Elizabeth said, half-straddling his lap. "Neal can watch," she added, with a grin in his direction.

"Hours seems like a long time," Peter observed. He could feel, every time Neal leaned in for another kiss, his erection rubbing against Peter's hip. Neal seemed like he was still settling into the idea, probably happier if he could pretend he wasn't rutting against Peter's best suit pants, but Peter wasn't going to put up much of a fight. "I have this bed..."

"Oh, you do?" Elizabeth asked.

\---

When he actually opened the bedroom door, Neal stopped on the threshold and stared at it.

"Okay, I see why you invited us to your place," he said faintly. Elizabeth, unwilling to abandon Project: Peter's Shirt, stopped kissing his chest and turned, and Peter slung an arm around her body, pulling her back against him.

"Wow," she said.

The bed deserved consideration. It was plain enough, just a headboard and footboard and four half-posts. It was the sheer size of it that overwhelmed: Peter had kept the original mattress with it because he wasn't sure he could buy another one that would fit -- the sheets themselves barely fit the mattress. A sea of blankets, pretty much every one he owned, covered it in a sort of patchwork pattern. It would easily sleep three. It would probably easily sleep five.

"I got it for free because I offered to pick it up myself," Peter said, by way of explanation. "I don't normally have dinner parties on it or anything, but I probably could."

"How did you get it in here?" Neal asked.

"A Makita and a superior knowledge of spatial physics," Peter answered.

Neal walked forward, slowly, and settled on the edge of the bed. Peter thought about the box of condoms in the bedside table. Elizabeth turned and slid one hand inside the gap in his shirt, palm warm on his skin, just above where his ribcage ended. Neal was pulling off the sweater he'd worn, tugging on the t-shirt underneath.

Peter stepped away from Elizabeth, taking a moment to kiss her before he turned to Neal. He put himself between Neal's legs, bending over and kissing him as well, and then dropped to his knees. He heard Elizabeth take a breath; Neal looked torn between arousal and anxiety.

"I don't have to," Peter said, unnerved by Neal's expression. "I'd like to."

Neal leaned over, kissing him instead of replying, and Peter heard the bed creak; when Neal leaned back, Elizabeth was behind him, pulling him up and wrapping her arms around his chest. It seemed to calm him; at any rate, when Peter undid his belt, Neal's hips thrust and his hands went to Peter's, thumbs rubbing the knuckles as he worked. Elizabeth tugged backwards, enough to get Neal's ass off the bed; Peter pulled his clothes down and off, over his ankles. He sat back on his heels and just looked for a moment. Neal was arched backwards, most of his weight on Elizabeth, solid muscle standing out in clear lines, thick cock dark against his stomach.

"Pretty, isn't he?" Elizabeth asked, kissing his neck.

"I see why you forgave the housebreaking," Peter answered, and Neal laughed. Peter rested his head on Neal's thigh, waiting for Neal to open his eyes. "Okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, okay," Neal said, and Peter licked him root to tip. "Oh! Oh -- kay, okay."

He made a soft, almost panicked noise when Peter sucked around the crown of his cock, but he didn't seem like he wanted him to stop, so Peter kept going, slowly. Neal's moans got a little less frantic, and one of his hands lifted off his thighs to rest on Peter's head as it moved.

 _Just like in the boy scouts,_ Peter thought, and laughed, or at any rate tried to. Neal gasped and thrust, sharply. "Do that again!"

It was funny enough, demanding enough, that Peter did; when he looked up to gauge Neal's reaction, Neal was staring down at him.

"El, El," Neal said urgently. "You should _see_..."

Elizabeth lifted her face from Neal's neck, peering over his shoulder, and the sight of them both watching him was almost overwhelming. Peter pulled back and stood up, tugging at his shirt, frantic to get his clothes off -- Elizabeth slid off the bed and began helping him, and Neal collapsed backwards, breathing hard. Peter got distracted by Elizabeth, kissing her and sliding her dress up her hips and off. She wasn't wearing any underwear, and Peter cupped and stroked her breasts, exploring a little while he had the chance.

Neal scrambled over to them when Peter tumbled onto the bed and pulled Elizabeth with him. For a few minutes the three of them were a disorganized heap, moving over and under and against each other until Peter nudged Neal over and pulled Elizabeth's shoulders up, and found himself lying next to the two of them, watching as they kissed. They were gorgeous.

"Never done this before," he mumbled, pushing against Neal's questing hand. Neal pressed a palm flat to his stomach, and Elizabeth leaned over to kiss him. "Do we flip for who's in the middle?"

Elizabeth laughed. "I think we do what comes naturally," she said. Neal's hand inched lower, slowly, almost shy. Peter wished he'd done the research on threesome mechanics he'd considered doing. Neal's fingers brushed the tip of his cock and he twitched. Neal did it again -- bastard, on purpose! -- and then looked at Peter with an odd pleading expression on his face.

"I don't know if I..." he swallowed. Peter kissed him, reassuringly, and then reached across them both. He held up a small bottle of lube, and Neal swallowed harder. Aha.

"Well, seeing as you two have a head start on me," he drawled, hardly believing his own voice, "I think I should get to be in the middle."

Neal seemed perplexed for a second before he got it, and his eyes went wide. Elizabeth just giggled and slid down to one side of him, hair splaying on the pillow.

"You know what you're doing?" Peter asked, hauling Neal up to sitting with one hand.

"Not really," Neal admitted. Peter slid in close, straddling him, and took one of his hands, pouring out lubricant onto his fingers. He guided Neal's hand around, behind his own hip, and it was messy and awkward for a minute or so and then Neal figured it out -- quick study -- and Peter jerked forward and moaned.

"Okay that's, right there, that's," he mumbled against Neal's shoulder, when Neal experimentally spread the two fingers he had inside him. He felt Elizabeth move, and then suddenly there were three fingers, one of them almost too much, Elizabeth kissing his arm as she helped Neal, oh, god.

Peter bit down on the cap of Neal's shoulder, not too hard, and managed to say _Stop_ though he didn't really want to. Neal froze.

"It's okay," Peter breathed. "Just, it's okay, that's good, but. Elizabeth." He pulled away and was reaching for the condoms when Elizabeth held one up, already open. She grinned at his stunned expression, then held onto his shoulder with one hand while she slid the condom on. Peter eased off of Neal's thighs and helped her lie back against the pillows. She hooked a thigh over his hip, smiling.

"Still not completely on top of things," Neal said worriedly. Peter looked over to where he was sitting, unmoving.

"For god's sake, it's not rocket science," he said, tossing Neal another condom, and Elizabeth burst out laughing. Neal looked like he'd been _challenged_. "Just go slowly."

Neal, jaw set, slid around behind him and wrapped both arms around his shoulders, then changed his mind and held on with one arm. There was pressure, slower than even necessary, and that sudden, sharp, half-pain fullness that he'd _missed_. He groaned and Neal jerked backwards.

"It's okay," Peter breathed. "Please, it was good."

He felt Neal nod against his shoulder, and the next time when he groaned Neal just bucked a little, sliding in further.

"It's," Neal panted. "That's. Tight. Wow."

"I know," Peter replied, but he left Neal to his momentary revelation and tugged on Elizabeth's hips, guiding himself inside her, moving slow enough that Neal could move with him, aware this was going to take some...choreography.

"You're smiling," Elizabeth said, looking up at him.

"Enjoying myself," he answered, stifling a moan. Neal was getting more confident, using Peter's shoulder as leverage, and every time he pushed a little Peter's hips pushed forward and Elizabeth made a soft cry.

Next time, he thought, next time he'd watch them fuck, know what this was like from the outside, but at the moment he was torn between Elizabeth, bucking up under him, and Neal, slowly pushing faster, deeper into him.

"Peter," Neal breathed against the nape of his neck, both arms around his body now, one hand tugging on his nipple. Peter wondered if Elizabeth was sensitive there; he arched, stretching a little, and sucked one into his mouth. Elizabeth thrashed. Question answered.

Neal's hand dropped lower, bracing himself on Elizabeth for a second, and Peter was pretty sure Neal was confident about this, anyway; he felt fingertips brush his cock, slide up to stroke Elizabeth's clit, and Neal's other hand tighten on his shoulder. They had a rhythm now, slow but hard, Neal pushing Peter into Elizabeth with every thrust. A little careless, a little sharp, just like Neal.

Peter lapped at Elizabeth's nipple and then bit it, gently, and when she cried out and raked her hands down his arms he bit a little harder and Neal laughed against his back as Elizabeth came loudly, swearing, Peter's name mixed up with Neal's until she twisted and fell silent, breathing hard. Peter kissed her, gave her a questioning look. She shook her head, so he nudged Neal back, sliding out of her. Elizabeth whimpered.

"Go on," Peter said, reaching back to grip Neal's hip. "It's okay, get rough if you want."

Neal made a sound halfway between a moan and a growl and shoved hard against him. He was strong, but Peter was a little bigger, a little more solid; he just braced himself on the bed, bending down to kiss Elizabeth again, and pushed every time Neal thrust, until they found a new, much faster, almost brutal rhythm. Neal's hand slid down to his hip, covering his, and Neal's fingers closed around his cock, wet from Elizabeth. Peter closed his eyes and tried to breathe, to ride it out, it had been a long time and it felt _so good_ \--

Neal's fingers danced along his cock and Peter felt the orgasm rip through him, muscles tensing, head bowed over Elizabeth, gasping for air, trying to keep Neal from stopping. Neal's fingers spasmed under his hand and Neal went still, quiet, tense, until suddenly he exhaled sharply and collapsed against Peter's back, hips rocking gently, coming with a low moan.

Peter caught his breath and pushed himself up slowly. Neal was still draped over his shoulders, kissing them, nuzzling against his neck like a cat.

"That feel good?" he asked, against Peter's skin.

"Great," Peter promised, turning to let Neal slide off him, down into the blankets. Neal pulled the condom off and then reached over, batting Peter's hands away, to help him too. Elizabeth curled up around Peter's left side, kissing anywhere she could reach.

"Well, I call that successful," she said, and Neal began to laugh before he toppled over onto Peter's chest.

"I can't believe I waited this long to try that," Neal said. Peter rubbed a hand through his hair. "I'm completely on board with this. I like it."

"Shh," Peter hushed, because really, Neal talked entirely too much.

"Ah, he's a sleeper," Elizabeth said, as Peter closed his eyes. He nodded. "Okay. But I warn you, I steal the blankets."

"She does, it's really mean," Neal said. Peter felt him move, and then soft warmth -- blankets, that was probably good. Though with two beautiful people, who had inexplicably decided to date him, in the bed, he wasn't too worried.

"Remember, you promised waffles in the morning," Neal said, before Peter drifted off.

\---

Half a year later, Elizabeth found a house. Peter was apprehensive at first, because Brooklyn was a long way off from his apartment, and he fretted in silence until Neal came over one night and asked him when the hell he was going to start packing.

Then it was real -- they were going to do this. They were going to have the strangest relationship ever, but they were going to have it, by god, and Neal and Elizabeth moved one weekend and Peter moved the next and for two weeks they _hated_ each other until the moving and unpacking was done. After which they collapsed on the bed ("Told you I'd get it in here," Peter said smugly) and fell asleep, together, in their home. It wasn't Neal-and-Elizabeth plus Peter; it was just NealElizabethPeter.

Neal brought paintings home. Peter brought a puppy home. Elizabeth bought furniture. Satchmo ate Neal's best shoes.

Neal consulted off and on for Peter and worked at the gallery until he got _discovered_ and the Brooklyn Museum snapped him up as their acquisitions manager. Peter got promoted. Elizabeth, bereft of both boys during the day, discovered she _really hated_ managing the gallery and walked out, and that night they all sat on the couch and Elizabeth cried in frustration and announced she was going to start her own business.

Neal and Peter flipped for who got to propose to her (Neal let Peter win). Peter got promoted again. Peter and Elizabeth got married in the middle of winter and left for Venice afraid their plane wouldn't even get off the ground, and when they got to Venice Neal was waiting for them. Satchmo sulked for weeks about being left with Elizabeth's sister, and peed on everything.

Elizabeth's company took off. Neal started preparations to become Curator of European Art. Peter caught a lot of bad guys.

Peter forgot their ten year anniversary completely -- after forgetting their fourth, sixth, eight, and ninth as well -- which Neal might have intended and Elizabeth might have colluded on. When he got home and found an empty house and a ticket to Belize taped to the front door, the phone call they got from him, furious and apologetic at the same time, was the funniest thing _ever_.

When Peter finally arrived at the rented villa in Belize the next day, they sat out on the patio and drank cheap beer (Peter) and expensive wine (Neal and Elizabeth).

"Imagine if you hadn't been assigned to the gallery theft," Neal said, stretched out, shirtless, enjoying the breeze, well aware that Peter and Elizabeth were enjoying his shirtlessness. "I might be in prison right now. Man, you came in like some kind of avenging angel, eighteen feet tall, and put the fear of God in that cop. I was looking forward to seeing you breathe fire."

"Imagine if Elizabeth hadn't knocked you over the head with a bat," Peter answered. "I wish I'd been there to see that."

"Imagine if you hadn't put us both under surveillance," Elizabeth said, and tossed something from the bag at her feet across the table. Neal picked it up and started laughing. He passed the grainy surveillance photo to Peter, who grinned down at it. Elizabeth, standing in the big windows of the old gallery, looking at Neal, who was leaning against a railing and eating ice cream, wearing a shirt that read _I Like Boys_. Elizabeth had slept in that shirt for years, until it finally started to fall apart.

"Would you trade it?" Neal asked, looking at Peter. "Us? For something, I don't know, normal? You wouldn't, would you? No, of course not. El, would you? I don't -- "

"Shh," El said, closing her eyes. "Neal, stop having both sides of the conversation."

 _No,_ Peter mouthed over her head at Neal. _Would you?_

Neal shook his head and leaned back again, closing his eyes. Peter watched both of them for a moment and then followed suit, drinking up the sunlight.


End file.
